A Second Too Late
by DaughterOfTigris
Summary: Katniss Everdeen was a second too late to volunteer, and Primrose Everdeen had to go into the 74th Hunger Games. Join us on a wild, emotional and thrilling rollercoaster, where Prim will have to fight 23 other children to the death, while her sister Katniss can only watch in horror back in District 12. Rated T for violence. UA and collaboration with panda-nati.
1. The Reaping

I feel soft pressure on my head, reassuring and warm. Calloused hands caress my hair, and instinctively, I know that it is Katniss, comforting me for the upcoming event today.

I have a feeling of dread at the pit of my stomach, a reminder of the reaping today. A reminder of the 20 slips with "Katniss Everdeen" written on them, and the single slip with my name. A reminder that Katniss could leave today, and would likely never return.

There is nothing that I, a little girl of 12, can do, but smile and laugh and keep the spirits up, even when there is nothing to smile about. Nothing to do but pretend, with fake cheerfulness, and nothing but hope to keep it going.

And so I rise, with a smile on my face and dread underneath as Buttercup, my lovely cat, bats at my hair. Katniss removes her hand from me quickly when she notices that I am awake, and I can almost feel the tension in her body, due to the Reaping later today.

* * *

I walk nervously to the PeaceKeepers and register, getting a tracker injected into my arm. I am not nervous for myself; after all, I only have one slip, while my sister has 20 slips out of a couple thousand.

"Good morning, Prim," Peeta Mellark, a good friend of Katniss's says to me. His father is very nice to my mother, and our families are very close.

"Good morning, Peeta," I say, nervousness shooting down my veins.

Peeta leans in closer, and almost whispers, "Katniss won't get picked, don't worry, Prim. Except-"

He is cut off by a peacekeeper roughly pushing me to the 12-year-old section. _What was Peeta going to tell me? Except what?_

 _It was probably nothing, Primrose Everdeen, Katniss is not going to get picked, now focus on who is,_ I tell myself, as a long and boring video of the Capitol and rebellion plays.

As it ends and everyone claps robotically, Haymitch staggers on the stage, obviously drunk, and he is introduced. The microphone is quickly passed to Effie Trinket to prevent further embarrassment to our district.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she says, "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor." She crosses the stage, and reaches her hand into the glass ball for girls. "Ladies first!" she says, traditionally, and grabs a slip of paper, smooths it out, and reads it loud and clear.

She doesn't call out "Katniss", rather, "Primrose Everdeen," which leaves me shocked and numb.

 _How, one tiny slip of paper out of about a thousand?_

I look over to Katniss for condolence, but she is hyperventilating, which she rarely ever does. I walk up the stairs to the stage, not even noticing anything, and stumble over the steps as bets are placed and money is exchanged.

Effie goes over to the boy's sphere, and pulls out another slip, but I'm not looking at her, I'm looking at Katniss, and just when Effie starts reading the male tribute's name, she shouts, "I volunteer as tribute!" but it is a second too late.

Everyone looks over and is silent. The male tribute is Peeta Mellark, one of Katniss's good friends. The entire district is still and tension is in the air. Effie replies to the entire district's unasked question, "Since Ms. Everdeen is a girl, she will not be able to volunteer for Mr. Mellark."

I can tell that Katniss wants to scream at her for misunderstanding, along with our entire district, and she rushes forward in vain when two Peacekeepers hold her back and sedate her.

I know I don't have a chance out of the other tributes, but I shout anyways, "I will come back!" just before Katniss is sedated. I hope that it made her feel better of my chance of survival, but I seriously doubt it.

* * *

 **Tiger75's A/N: So, this is a UA that my good friend Da Pafin and I are writing. Please review, and critique! You can probably tell the difference between the writing styles. I'm super sorry for not writing in a while.**

 **Da Pafin's A/N: I take ALL the credit for this work.**

 **Tiger75: ... It's a collaboration...**


	2. Last Words

I am escorted to the Justice Building by two peacekeepers.

The last time I will ever see my sister, my mother, my friends and family. My last conversation with them. Forever.

 _Don't think like that, Prim,_ I tell myself, but I know I'm going to die anyways. How can I, a mere 12-year-old girl, win the Hunger Games against 18-year-olds who have trained their entire lives for this?

Katniss walks in shakily. Her face is pressed into a cool mask of disinterest.

I can tell Katniss is keeping a brave face on for my encouragement, but I tell her, "It's alright, Katnip, I will make it back alive"

Finally, her facade crumbles into a mess of whirling emotions flashing across her face. "Prim, my little duck," she said, face contorted into one of despair and desolation. "Why did it have to be you? It's my fault, I didn't react as quickly as I should have. I'm so sorry." She pressed her face against the crook of my neck and just held me as tightly as she could.

I hug her, saying, "It's not your fault, no one's fault, just the Capitol's. Take care of Mother for me."

Katniss sniffs, but slowly straightens up, alert of the fact that we do not have much time, and our last few seconds are precious. "Be careful, Primduck," she says. "Peeta will take care of you," and hugs me back.

The door re-opens and the peacekeepers come in. "Time's up, here's your second visitor." _Like in a jail cell, I only get three visitors until the games… my death…"_

They pull Katniss out forcefully, and my mother is shoved in. It hurts me so bad to see her like this; my mother, my delicate and beautiful mother, brutally pushed through a door roughly by those… peacekeepers, citizens, regular citizens, forced to make a living this way, much like Katniss has to risk her life every day and hunt.

Fairness did not exist. No one could justify the hurt of another fairly, because deep down, we were all twisted and wronged and something was coiled up tightly in the depths of our souls until we collapsed. Until then, nothing would change, and each second, each minute, each hour, each day of our lives, a gift bestowed upon us was wasted and torn and dull. We were tainted, impure, laden with guilt and sorrow. The world was muted in muffled colors, nothing had the vibrancy of real living. We were dead shells of humans.

She runs to me, and I can tell that she has been crying for hours. "It's all right, Mother, I'll have Peeta," I say, face pressed against her shaking shoulders, hopefully comforting her. However, I know that if I am falling apart, she is too. After all, the towns people say we are very much alike.

"Oh, sweetie," she says, crying into my arms, "Just remember that you will always have Peeta to protect you," she replies. "Please, Prim dear, take this, your father gave it to me. I know there is a chance you will not return, _trust me when I say there is a possibility one of my loved ones will not return,_ but please, even if I do not have a duplicate, I have faith in the fact that it will at the very least, comfort you." Then my mother smiles at me, and even with her tearstained eyes and mussed hair, she looks beautiful. Whenever you feel lonely, or need encouragement look at this and remember us back home."

She hands me a simple, seemingly mundane ring, but I know better.

 _My father touched this ring. My father gave it to my mother,_ _and now my mother gave it to me._ _It's as precious as gold, if not, more,_ I think to myself. _It's all I have left… of him..._

The peacekeepers say "Time's up, here's your last visitor" and my mother leaves quickly, sniffing, only a backward glance as my last image of her.

I sit in content silence mulling over my emotionally draining talks, and wondering who my next visitor will be. I play guessing games in my head, a welcome distraction from what's to come, of who my last visitor will be, until I hear the telltale creak of the door and shuffle of shoes.

I look up, only to gasp in surprise at my next visitor. "They let you come in?"

* * *

Peeta's PoV

I feel jolts of shock when they call Prim's name, and I am even more shocked when Katniss doesn't volunteer. _That's not the Katniss I know, the one that would do anything for her family and sister,_ I thought, but I am even more stunned when they call "Peeta Mellark."

 _I, who have never needed to take tesserae, in my entire life! I, who have barely any slips out of the thousand that are probably in there!_ I silently reprimand myself for only thinking about myself. _What about Prim? How is she going to survive? I can lift heavy things to protect myself, from years of lugging flour sacks around, but Prim knows_ _almost next to_ _nothing_ _about fighting and killing, and by all means, she shouldn't! Prim is a gentle 12 year old girl who shouldn't be forced to learn how to kill to preserve their own life. No one should._

With all these thoughts going through my head, three peacekeepers have to carry me up the stairs to the stage while I refuse to move my feet.

"I volunteer as tribute!" echoes a female voice across the silent square, as I slowly step onto the stage. _What? Everyone knows that only a male tribute can volunteer for a male tribute._

But as I turn my head and look, I identify Katniss as the shouter, white-faced, and scared.

I know that face.

I know Katniss. _She's only like that when someone she loves is in danger, never herself._ I want to believe that she is scared for me, but even though we've known each other since birth, it's Prim, her little sister, who she's scared for.

 _You're too late,_ I think to myself sadly. _But_ _I'll look after Prim for you._

My thoughts are confirmed by Effie saying "Since Ms. Everdeen is a girl, she will not be able to volunteer for Mr. Mellark."

I respond, silently, but fiercely. _You and your capital stupidity! Look, and see the horror and sorrow plastered on Katniss's face. Look and see the disappointment on the townspeople that one of their most cheerful and gentle is chosen, and now she cannot be saved by the one that loves her the most._ I think to myself bitterly. But then I recall Katniss everywhere, from the very beginning of my life.

 _Katniss, smiling and laughing with me when we were both three, dark brown hair floating everywhere, dark, almost black eyes glistening with happiness._

 _Katniss, sitting next to me on the first day of school at the age of five when no one bothered to._

 _Katniss and I talking, telling each other secrets that no one, not even our parents knew. All the time._

 _My mother didn't care about me, but my father was enthusiastic. "She's a beautiful girl, with a lovely mother."_

" _Then why didn't you marry her instead?" I ask him, but he just shakes his head._

" _You won't understand now, not when you're only eight."_

 _I was frustrated, but I waited, until the simple friendship between Katniss and I got more complex and complex._

 _Until I was eleven._

 _Until the accident. She was eleven years old, same as I. I remembered the dust and ash as the mine collapsed, and the gratefulness that radiated off of almost every family. But not Katniss's. Nor I._

I watch from the creaky stage when the peacemakers sedate her as she runs forward, her screams breaking into my deepest memories and thoughts.

 _I'll try to protect Prim for you. I might not succeed, but I'll try my best._

* * *

Time for my "Good wishes," but I already know that they are the same thing as my last words. The peacekeepers shove me to the Justice Building, and I half-admire, half-detest the riches and embroidery on the walls.

 _Those riches and tapestries, they could feed a non-specific family of 3, for years if they were sold without the kids taking tesserae,_ I think to myself, but in my head, I know that the "non-specified" family is Katniss, her mother, and Prim. _Why does the Capitol and their buildings get such luxurious riches that have no use -you can't eat golden embroidered tapestries- but some, no most families in some districts have next to nothing!_

Mother walks in, and I can tell that she has been crying. _Crying, Pah! I bet she's here to complain about something petty._ "Peeta, without you here, I'll have to do all of the chores!"

 _There it is,_ I think to myself dryly.

 _Do the chores? That's all she thinks I'm good for? I can't believe she doesn't care about me. No, actually I can._

But then it gets worse.

"If only Katniss was a little quicker to volunteer, then District 12 would finally have a winner this year," she tells me.

I want to slap her. Instead, I shove her to the door with fire in my eyes. "Leave."

She leaves, not even looking back, and I feel a pang of guilt

 _She deserves it,_ I thought to myself, and the next visitor, my father, walks in, much more emotional, tears dripping down his face.

"Peeta, remember that I will always love you." He hugs me tightly but this is just a distraction so he can say something without peacekeepers listening in.

He whispers, "You're going up against kids who have trained for the games their entire life. Trained with weapons, but not with growing wheat for our organic bread like we have."

"But how is that supposed to help me at all? There are no seeds or anything of the like at the corn." My voice is muffled, but Father can still understand me.

"Here's a token for you," he claps my large, rough calloused hand, with his own, dusty with flour, and pushes a locket into it. "There are seeds inside," he whispers. "I traded one of our four-tier cakes for these seeds; they grow amazingly fast, within a couple hours with barely any nourishment."

 _He took the risks, the risk of his life, the risk of getting caught, the risk of these seeds being fake and him,_ wasting _a four-layered cake for this._

I become teary-eyed. "Thank you Father," I whisper into his hug, and he only nods in return.

I have a special request for someone who I want to have words with. Here. In district 12. I don't care if we can talk on the train all day and night, I must talk to Primrose Everdeen here in District 12 before we enter places with Capitol security cameras everywhere. I push apart the Peacekeepers at the door, mumbling a quick "excuse me, I forgot something", to the room where I know Prim is kept. The Peacekeepers let me come in, as I know she'll only have two visitors anyways, and I quickly kneel by her as her face contorts into an expression of shock.

"They let you come in?" she half shouts, whispers at me in unbelief.

"Well it's not like I barged in or something," I reply to her sarcastically. "Don't worry, it's me."

"How can you stay calm like this?!" she asks me accusingly. "I'm being sent… to die!."

This is a side of Prim that I've **never** seen before. Always the kind and loving one, the soft one, encouraging one. But now, her facade completely crumbles and I see her hard side.

"Because I have this." I turn my back to the door and pretend I'm giving her a hug, actually holding up the locket with the seeds. "Fancy Capitol seeds, grow basically anywhere."

She sniffs, and I'm scared that I just made her even more bitter. But she slowly turns around and gives me a small smile. "Capitol seeds. In the Games. Secretly," and her smile widens as I turn and grin back at her.

* * *

 **Yay, finally, an update!**

 **So I updated this chapter and added more, what do you think about it?**

 **Is Prim in character?**

 **Is Peeta in character?**

 **We'll try to update consistently but we're both super busy so it might not happen. :(**

 **Please review with any errors or style problems and things like that.**


	3. The Train Ride

Silence, silence is the first thing I register when I step onto the high speed train. Well not really, I amend, but close enough. It's a soft hum, reassuring, and catlike, except nothing like Buttercup. Buttercup, one thought leads to another, and a wave  
of nostalgia washes over me, the thought of Home, Buttercup, Lady, and _Katniss_.

But I need to get a hold over myself, and be calm and controlled, to even have a chance at winning and ever returning.  
I glance up, at Peeta, and back down before he sees me. He is distracted, I can tell, probably thinking, no worrying, about Katniss. I can't blame him, I am just as worried, if not more.

I remember her at the Reaping. Her mouth, curved into a little o, eyes wide in panic and terror, because she was probably thinking, _whywhywhywhyisitnotmeitsprimnononono_ and her mouth clamped firmly shut, the brief registration in her eyes that came  
before she was elated, that she would not able to save me. _It's ok, Katniss_ , I think to Fake Katniss in my head,an image of her abject horror still fresh in my mind. _I'll survive, and when I come back, there will be enough money and food you don't have to work as hard as you always do. Sometimes, it's ok to take a break._

 __

But still, the image of Katniss panicking is enough to bring a wave of weary sadness, and I'm suddenly very tired, and don't want to be at this fancy train, no matter how plush, because _oh god I'm going to be in the Hunger Games and I'll probably die and never see Katniss and Mother again._

I'm very tired. 

* * *

Peeta

"Welcome tributes, to the train that will take you to the Capitol!" I wince at the grating of Effie's high voice, squeaky from nervousness, and Haymitch. _Stupid Capitolites, you get luxury and riches and relaxation, but you're nervous? If anyone has the right to be nervous, it's us. We get Reaped, a synonym for death, and watch as you cheer, jeer, bet and waste precious money that would keep any family in District 12 fed for years._

Haymitch staggers in, with a bottle of wine with a label, "Maximum Strenuum Vinum". _Ah, the man of the hour_ , I think dryly to myself, but his eyes were scarily focused.

His eyes narrowed on Prim and me, as if he couldn't believe that we were the Reaped ones, possibly... analyzing us? and I shivered a bit. But then his eyes returned to their cloudy quality they were on the District 12 Reaping stage. Maybe I imagined it.  
But no, this man was a victor, I couldn't let my guard down.

"So," he plunked down onto a plush chair (Another waste of money, if we're going to die, why make it comfortable?) and took a generous swig from his bottle and grinned, obviously drunk at us, booze dripping down his chin and staining his shirt,  
but then adopted a more serious pose and scowled, as if we interrupted something private, and I guess in a way we had.

 _How is Haymitch, this drunken old man, a Victor? He isn't physically fit, can't get sponsors -he's so ugly- and he sure isn't smart enough to win the games with wit. The tributes were probably softer and those rotten "Career Packs" wouldn't have existed back then, would they have?_ My  
bitter thinking was rudely interrupted by Haymitch, leaning in so I could smell the wine, foul as hell, in his breath. I jerked out of my thoughts as Effie said, "Never put your face that close to someone, Peeta."

"Yeah, so it's my fault what Haymitch did," I am about to say, but stop as I notice the admiring look Effie gives him.

"What's your plan?" he asks us.

"Plan?" I respond dumbly.

"Yes, plan." He stared at us like we were idiots, and I squirmed a bit, feeling a little like one. "What, you plan to waltz right in and expect everyone to impale themselves on your sword?"

"Why yes, of course that was my plan, isn't the best plan ever?" I answer sarcastically, "Of course you have to teach me how to use a sword first."

"Very funny, sweetheart." He leaned forward, so close I could see the fire in his eyes, and smell the sourness of his breath. "This isn't a game. This is your life. And do you want to survive? Yes. Yes, you do, because this is your life."  
He grins at me. "But do I care? Yes, yes I do, so cooperate with me, and you'll find your time here much easier. But then again, what do I know?"

And that's when I snap. Really, it's not that hard. When I think back, somewhat regretfully, perhaps Haymitch was provoking us on purpose, testing us. But I snapped, regardless, and I still don't know if I passed or failed.

"Of _course_ I know that," I snarl, pushed beyond my limit. "You think I don't? You think I'm some sheltered, spoiled, brat?" I shake my head. "No, and you of all people should know and understand. You grew up in Districttwelve.  
You experiencedfirsthand what it meant, what it was liketo live there, and while I was fortunate enough to been born in the nice side of twelve, other people weren't, and I'm betting that you weren't either." I'm panting after my  
mini speech, glaring eyes and clenched fists. I'm sure I make _quite_ the picture.

I'm not sure what I expected Haymitch to do. Hit me? Scold me? Shove more alcohol down his throat?

Instead, he laughed. Shrill, manic, hysterical, laughter. He laughed and laughed, like a deranged old man. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, I wondered if this was a side effect of drinking, and I physically strike, with my emotions I've been  
bottling up, dropping the fork in my hand with a clink to the ground, and as Effie glares at me, I raise my other hand with the knife and make contact, sending a dark liquid flowing from his chair. Prim shouts, "No!" And Effie's face is  
twisted into one of horror as I slump onto my overly plush seat, exhausted and ashamed. 

* * *

I gasp and glare at the absolute horror that is unfolding beneath my eyes.

"Mr. Mellark!" I say loudly, sternly, but not quite shouting yet, the perfect level.

He turns and slumps in his armchair -why give these children, no, little devils, comfortable chairs?- and doesn't look at the girl - Ms. Everdeen, Haymitch, or me and instead focuses in tracing the intricate gold colored floral patterns on the arm of  
the chair.

I clear my throat and some Avoxes clean up the mess he made by knocking the wine glass with his knife, spilling it all over the thick and luxurious carpet.

I shake my head in disgust. District 12 children… _Why, oh why did I have to choose the worst district? He was why, but that was when he was a young, handsome and clever man, not this drunk mess he is now_. I give a resigned sigh. _But I was top student at the Center, I could have gotten a district with manners, District 1 perhaps, but they wouldn't let me go there. No! There was too much a chance that I'd find my past parents, and the last thing an escort needs is to get too attached._ Inside  
I scowl to myself, regretting this, but on the outside, I'm the perfect picture of an escort, silly voice, stupid wig, and this outrageous outfit.

And perhaps I do portray the perfect picture escort inside too, sometimes. Perhaps they were right about me. Just a silly voice, stupid wig, and outrageous outfit on the inside too.

But sometimes it's easier. 


	4. Chariot Parade

"Just let us finish and then your stylist will see you." I really can't wait! But seriously, who knew there was so much pain involved in the process of beauty? Briefly, I think back to when Mother would gently brush my hair with her hands, simply and painlessly.

First, when we finally got off the train, Peeta and I were taken into different rooms and prepped for the stylists. Prepped is only a glammed-up version of having my leg hair, arm hair, and other body hairs waxed, along with much more pleasant things like perfumes, makeup and such. It's my favorite part of this entire trip so far… that's what this is. _Only a trip, only a vacation, a chance to see the Capitol. I will not die, I will return to Katniss and Mother and Buttercup and Lady alive._

Sometimes I even believe myself. Briefly.

I close my eyes as the fresh scent of roses hits me. A member of my prep team of three, the one who introduced himself as Flavius, is rubbing what appears to be rose oil into my skin. We've used rose oil occasionally, Mother and I, but it's expensive and not worth the large sum of money for these tiny luxuries.

It's a bit strange, being completely naked in front of all three of them, hands all over me, but it's strangely nostalgic. I can almost feel Mother's hands instead of theirs, rubbing an herbal oil to test it out before giving it out and using it on customers or the injured. Their hands are soft, and I relax into their hold. The pricks of pain almost fade into silence as I sink into their care. However, they are not Mother, and their hands feel unwelcome in my privates. Finally, they stop and give me a robe so my stylist, Cinna, can come in.

Cinna. It's such an absurd name, and I can't believe it; who'd name their child Cinna? Is it shortened for Cinnamon or something? Well, after all, Katniss and I are both named after plants, and Peeta is named after _bread._

Light footsteps make me aware of his entrance, and I'm stunned about how little alterations he has. Most of them, when we watch the Hunger Games, have loads of makeup and obvious surgeries to make themselves pretty or handsome. Cinna's a different type of handsome than them, more natural beauty than fake, plastic beauty. And I can tell that I'll like him.

His gait is sure and purposeful. Cinna walks forward, his golden eyes never straying from me. It's a little unsettling, how focused his eyes are (contrary to Haymitch's), but I find it somewhat comforting.

"Primrose Everdeen," he states.

"Yes," I reply, because what else do I have, than my voice and innocent face? Cinna is my stylist, and it is his job to make me look good. To bring out the qualities that the audience will want to sponsor. So that I don't die. So that I live.

Cinna walks towards me, and I swallow a nod of unease. My hands go unconsciously to cover my breasts, an effort I had been restraining. I am so exposed to a stranger. This action can expose all of my vulnerability, and I am at so much unease. But I shall have to bear it, and survive.

He gestures to the small table in the middle of the room. "Please, have something to eat."

The table is lavish, overflowing with food. Smells I have blocked out come rushing back in full force. Decadent displays of food overwhelm me.

Confused, I take a small fruit, possibly an orange as he retreats back into the way he came from, and brings out a black wispy dress made out of a strange material.

"You don't happen to be afraid of fire, do you?"

I've seen the burns on the workers who mine in the coal mines and have helped treat them. I know proper fire safety from my common sense, and The Capitol probably has all the medication needed to treat a burn, if I get burned. "I'm listening."

He tells me of the dress and plan, and I am no way prepared to go through with it, except from the fact that I've figured to trust him and his judgement. I am to get onto the coal black chariot driven by the same coloured horses but with dyed red and orange manes, with that dress and Peeta. He will be dressed in a similar outfit, except in a more manly cut and fashion. Then, Cinna and his partner, Portia, will light us on fire, and we'll wave and be our "charming selves", as he described us, and bingo, we get sponsors.

As we get into the chariot, Cinna tells both Peeta and me, "Hold hands."

Confused, I start to ask why, but the look Portia, Peeta's stylist, gives me says, "Now is not the time." She doesn't appear to like me very much, and I have no clue why. Maybe she just has something against children, it's not my business.

I hold Peeta's hand, feeling how sweaty our palms are. Effie would most likely cringe in disgust, and I can't help but let out a small giggle as I picture her overly expressed, Capitol expressions cringing.

Portia gives me _The Look,_ and I shut my mouth. They use some cans to start a fire on our clothes, and I'm surprised they don't burn, especially my wisp of an outfit. "Ready?" I ask Peeta, and he responds as nervous as I feel.

"No, but I'm not not ready, so hopefully that will be enough," which coaxes a smile from me.

"Same here. Let's just smile, wave, and rely on the costumes to do the job."

* * *

Aelinia Glory, 23, Capitol Resident and Potential Sponsor

I'm so excited for the chariot parade. This is my favorite part of the entire games, except for the games part, obviously. It's always so wonderful to see the Districts represented by these chariots and outfits, and they're great ideas for my designs. I was _this_ close to getting the stylist job, for District 1, even, and they denied it at the last second! I'm angry, but I've been making much more money on my own than I would have made by my styling. It's only my reputation that's gone down, but I've pretty much fixed that. Most of the residents are wearing at least one piece of my designs, trademarked Glorelia. Everyone loves the brand, and I've gotten into the "Top 100 Most Influential People of the Year" column right behind Caesar Flickerman, who always gets into the Top 10, and even President Snow, who always gets the title of Most Influential Person. It's true, though, the games are amazing, and we all have to give credit to him. It's great entertainment, and I always sponsor the district with the best designs.

District One comes out, and surprisingly, they're not very good. I have much better outfits than that, but I guess The Capitol didn't want them to shine this year. I'll probably get assigned next year. The hot pink outfits, despite the cheers from the crowd, aren't pleasing to the eyes at all. Most of the crowd is getting tricked by the colour and not focusing on the outfit itself. Pink is the best colour in the entire world, but the outfit design itself is terrible. Nonetheless, I cheer for the District, the boy is quite hot, and would make for an excellent Victor that way…

District 2, by comparison, is much harsher and serious. The tributes themselves seem tough and it's supported by those outfits, they're so much better, and the crowd surprisingly knows that, with the horrible fashion judgement they made of the District 1 tributes, but the cheering greatly exceeds the ones of District 1.

As always, District 3's outfits are terrible. I don't even get why there's a District there. District 5 could easily take the place of District 3, I'm sure. They don't even do anything! Technology is made in the Capitol, why does a district even do that? They'll contaminate the technology with their dirty, disgusting hands.

Four is the best so far, naturally. Their outfits are the best, and the best stylists want to be Four's, like me. I've applied some times, but gotten denied so far. But hopefully, they'll finally realize, and I'll get all the glory, just like my last name.

None of the other districts really stand out to me, except when it comes to District 12. Looking down at my program, I see the names, _Peeta Mellark_ and _Katniss Everdeen_ , and I know who to sponsor. Because their outfits are brilliant, amazing. They are lit on fire.

The orange flames flicker and lick their bodies, illuminating them, as one, even. They are _holding hands._ It's a really impressive outfit, and I cannot believe the work of their stylist, it's even way beyond my abilities. It's probably the work of Cinna, then.

I remember Cinna, from the Design Academy. He was never like the rest of us, never really fit in, but his style ideas and how he made them possible really were amazing.

The roar of the crowd makes me stand up and cheer for the fiery pair. I throw some roses down to them from my third-row seat. How much money must The Capitol get from this? If I weren't a designer, I wouldn't have enough money to even afford a seat, I'd have to stand at the very top, like a _District resident!_ How barbaric.

As I was saying before, Cinna. He was from one of the lower class families in the Capitol, and probably had to take very long tests just to get in. Without connections, getting into Fabrica Schola is nearly impossible - only the best, most prodigious students can get in, and even then, it's a lottery. I got in with money and connections. My parents both were stylists, said to be the greatest of their time period. For now, I think I'll just be sponsoring the pair from Twelve, but maybe they'll accept me in as a stylist for next year… and to think, it'd be the Quarter Quell as well!

* * *

 **A/N: Oh my gosh, panda-nati and I are SO SORRY for this late update! This is like... our first update in what... 5 months? But I hope y'all forgive us, because we're both busy people and have school and other activities. Oh yeah, and today is my fanfiction anniversary! (panda's already been on here for like 3 years, gosh.)**

 **We have our plot pretty much secured, and we're writing the fifth chapter, so expect that in, maybe, a few weeks?**

 **~Tigress and panda _out.~_**


	5. Training

"Have fun," Haymitch advises us as we step into this elevator. He seems to dislike us, and I don't know why. He ignores us, and doesn't offer any advice. While the other mentors were probably all telling their tributes strategies and what to do, he was just drinking. Drinking, of all things. I wish I had the nerve to tell him off like Katniss would have done. But especially after the incident we had on the train, he's become more closed off and distant, resorting only to a, "How much would you'd like to know?" to answer out questions.

I want to go and explore some more really badly. Find out how this elevator contraption works. It's just so amazing, how beautiful yet foreboding it is. I can even see through the glass, look down, and it feels like I'm flying. The other tributes are staring at me though. Especially Peeta. He's probably wondering what's going on with me. I've always seemed like a naive little child to him, and I probably am. But I really don't like how he judges me like I'm nothing to him, only a child for him to protect. I know he judges, and everyone else does. He, and they, have only seen certain parts of me. But a person is never that shallow. There is always a reason, for how people act, and there are layers surrounding a person. Peeta has only seen one layer. I just wish I knew my other layers.

But it's not wrong for him to protect me. He's probably right. But I just wish he wouldn't go such lengths and make me his own burden. At least we have those Capitol seeds he possesses. How did he even get those? But the Capitol has taken the locket I've put them into, to examine them. If they find out, we're basically dead. I suppose a nice clean death in the Capitol would be better than a messy and painful death in the Games anyways. And Katniss and Mother wouldn't watch us die on the tiny screen to another tribute. But perhaps it would be better, to see us for a little while more, even if they see a gory mess of us.

The elevator doors open, and I'm astonished. Overwhelmed.

There's too much. Too bright, too much harm and destruction in this room. There are weapons everywhere. Swords in that corner, knives in this corner, I just can't take this. I've seen what wounds, what unrecoverable injuries, weapons can cause. For the short years I have lived, I've always hated to violent livelihood Katniss took up to provide for us. But this is worse. These weapons, made for the specific purpose of teaching us to kill, not just animals, but humans. But I must try something for Katniss's sake, for Mother, for Lady and Buttercup.

Later, I think. Later, I'll focus on the weapons and the pointy sticks and the bows, and try shooting a bow like Katniss does. Maybe I'll win with that. Maybe I can win, maybe. But I take one look at the pair from One, the pair from Two, the large boy from Eleven. And I know I have barely any chance compared to them, I have no chance compared to anyone. I, a mere 12-year-old, definitely cannot win the games. But there's no rule, no possibility, that I cannot try. And I look to the District 8 boy, the other tributes, skinny, malnourished, weak, who even have a less chance of winning that I do. It's a terrible thing, to look down upon others for encouragement, and I wouldn't do it under normal circumstances, but I do that anyways.

But it's not like these are normal circumstances anyway.

Weapons, weapons, everywhere. Those Careers using them easily without even any thought of how precious life is. I suppose that'll will be my downfall, to not even make it past the first day because I'm too scared, too weak. I can't be this weak. I have to be Katniss, strong, unfeeling, proud. I have to learn how to fight, not how to cower. I can't back down, I can only stand up. If only.

But I'm scared. I need something comfortable, something nostalgic. Looking around, searching for something useful that will remind me of her, Katniss, and of peace, not killing. And I spot the survival skills station. Quickening my pace, I walk over there. Peeta's busy at the camouflage station, doing who knows what. There's no one here, which is good. I don't want someone else breathing down my neck, watching me work. There's too much pressure, too much room for error, and way too much noise in the room anyways. The tension is so thick, and it's a miracle that it hasn't stretched and broken yet. It's a strained muffle of sound, but it seems to cover us in a cloud.

"Hi, I'm Prim," I tell the trainer. She looks nice, and a little relieved that I'm here. Most of the tributes have focused on weapons, and fighting, few have stopped at her stand.

"Call me Amora," she replies easily with a smile. "So I would assume that you were here to learn about survival skills?"

I'm a little bit intimidated by how nice she is, so different than what the other capitol people I have encountered been like, and I can almost see my father and Katniss helping me with sorting these plants out as she tells me to, in order to evaluate me and see what my level is.

"Belladonna," he'd say to me. "Are very dangerous and deadly plants."

"But nightlock is even worse. Get even a little bit of it in your bloodstream, and you're dead," Katniss chimes in.

Sorting both of those seemingly harmless plants into the "poisonous" pile, I continue on. There are a few I'm not sure of, maybe they're Capitol plants or native to other districts and unable to grow outside the fence of District 12, but I finish satisfied. Amora looks over and checks the plants, and my face glows with pride when she tells me I've gotten almost all but three right.

"You should still work on these though," she says. "If you encounter one of those three, even if it's a three out of thirty chance, it's still a chance," she tells me seriously, and I absorb this information and nod.

Another girl comes over, around my age as well, with a smile on her face. Amora gets her started like she did with me, and while we're talking about how to start fires (because it's easier to teach two people together than two people separately), she finishes. Amora looks impressed, and even though I don't have good time sense, I'm pretty sure it took her almost half the time it took me.

Across the room, I see Peeta and wave, smiling. He waves back, but with a grimace on his face, like he's tasted something bitter. It almost appears that he's talking with the Careers, and sort of like he's bargaining, but I can't really tell.

I turn back my focus to these sticks in my hands to find the girl staring at me. "I'm Rue, from District Eleven."

"I'm Prim," I reply. "So, how did you do on the evaluation?" I ask, out of curiosity.

She replies a bit softly, voice deflating, almost like she's ashamed of her result, and I blush for asking. "I mean, it's okay if you don't want to say…" I trail off, not wanting to corner her.

"No, it's fine," she replies. "I got thirty out of thirty," she blushes, dark cheeks flushing prettily.

I'm thoroughly impressed. "Wow, that's excellent!"

"Thanks, I'm sure you did well too," she says modestly. I like her. There's warm aura she radiates, like the sun, except I don't have to squint to look at her. In this cold killing enviroment, I crave this loving warmth. I want to pull her close the me, snuggling in the warmth, just to be near her, to have her next to me. Maybe I should ask her to be allies. No, I don't want to be allies, I want to be _friends._ There's just this tug in my chest that pulls me to her, to be connected, to unite and teamwork through the games.

 _But there can be only one Victor,_ the little voice in my head tells me. I ignore it and instead smile at Rue.

I decide to be brave today. "I like you," I say, "And I would like to be near you. Would you like to allies with me?" I hope she doesn't mind my bluntness.

She smiles at me. A good sign. "I'll like that too!" she chirps.

We spend half of the day at the survival skills station, and we finally get the fire to start with only two branches.

"Hey, isn't that your district partner over there? What's he doing with those Careers? They're dangerous…" Rue shivers, and I follow her train of thought.

Peeta's over with them, and they've progressed from Peeta looking like he wants to bargain with them, to them glaring at my friend and partner, with him replying something inaudibly from this distance with a shrug.

"We should go over and check it out," I tell Rue, curious.

"No, we probably don't want to," she contradicts nervously, like she's scared for speaking out, and only relaxes when I gesture for her to continue. "He probably wouldn't want us to butt in."

I still haven't brought up the topic of Rue's and my almost automatic alliance to Peeta, and she has no idea that I want to ally with him. I'm not sure I want to tell either of them yet - well I'll tell Peeta about Rue, though. But I want to show Peeta that I can do this myself, and win, returning back to my family.

A startling thought crosses my mind again. _There can only be one Victor._ If I win, what will happen to Peeta? I think of my sister's friend, my friend and partner, lying dead, drained of his blood, injuries rotting him away like some of the patients Mother and I treated. I push away this thought, and the fact that I'm still to scared to kill. But I have to step up and be a Katniss, be the strong, independent person she is, and have to win to get back to her.

"Want to go and check out the weapons area?" I ask Rue, not sure how she'll take this.

"Sure, why not," I'm relieved when she replies with this.

I don't want to kill someone, a live person, that goes totally against what I do, but maybe I'll step up and be like Katniss, and kill some food. I hate that word, _kill._ It reminds me of everything bad. My father, failures, the people with sick ones, injured loved ones, who are sometimes at our doorstep that can't afford our healing. The whippings every week, which at least one person dies from, even with Mother's and my treatments. It's unpreventable. At least, even if I win, I will die. Even if I lose, I will die. But I just want those extra years to cherish Katniss and Mother and Peeta, and to love them, have fun.

Not just to survive. To _live._

 **A/N: Okayyy so panda-nati and I have finally updated! (Actually it was my fault, we had this written but I didn't upload, whoops xD) Hope y'all like this chapter, and thanks for the follows/favorites, everyone. :) We also love reviews ;))**


	6. Private Sessions

I still have no clue what to show for my private training session, but yesterday, Rue told me to show my healing skills after I healed a man in a simulation.

"But a simulation is so different than the actual thing!" I complained, watching the ever so satisfying roll of her eyes.

"Just do it, Prim. I believe in you."

Somehow, her words made me feel more confident, but they've worn off now, especially after Rue goes into the room, door clanging ominously after her. Peeta tries sending me what appears to be an encouraging look before his name gets called, and then it's only me. I feel like we've established an automatic and implied truce, not an alliance, as I'm already allied with Rue and I don't think I should ally with someone else. I do like Peeta, but with three people...More people to protect, to let down, to eventually betray. I don't want that.

But surprisingly, it only takes what feels like ten minutes (everyone else took around 20 minutes or longer) until my name gets called on the crackly loudspeaker. Dutifully, I enter and curtsy as a courtesy, not taking my eyes off of those large, scary weapons. One of the knives even has _blood_ on it!

"You may begin."

Where did that voice come from? I turn back and see the long table, filled with food, drinks, and other treats. Maybe a speaker system?

 _I curtseyed the wrong way..._ Blushing with embarrassment, I scan the table in search of the Gamemakers who are supposed to be judging me, but there's only one, drunk in a chair, passed out. The others appear to be clustered in the corner nearest to the medical station, which I had planned to work with, and I head there in confusion, and although part of my mind is going, _Turn back, Prim,_ I know I have nothing to turn back to - better to gather the attention of these Gamemakers.

 _Oh my gosh._ I stifle a scream, but still jump in shock as I take in this sight. A Gamemaker is lying on the floor bleeding from a... knife slice? A _knife slice_ on his leg. To be honest, as I take it in, it's not as bad as it looks, it only appears to have broken skin, and probably only half a centimeter or two down. They're all muttering about lockdowns and stupid tributes and trying to call an Avox in.

I wonder if this is why Peeta finished so quickly, he just turned tail and left, maybe? But then why was I called in, is it because it's embedded in the system, or was it an accident? I don't know, but I'll do my best to get a good score, for sponsors, so I can return back to Katniss, Mother, Lady, and Buttercup.

I don't think any of the Gamemakers know anything about healing, and they're probably idiots, to not keep some strong Capitol medicine in here, just in case. Why aren't they using their communication devices? And why can't they just take him to a hospital or something? I've heard that in the Capitol, they have hospitals, places where people who are injured can be healed. So I suppose that we can call our house a _hospital_ , right?

Wiping all my thoughts away, I bump past the Gamemakers, and, ignoring their baffled looks, begin to use some plants to lessen the "pain" that the man is complaining about, doesn't even look like more than a scratch. Back in Twelve, there were children who had lost limbs coming to us, who didn't shed a tear. I guess it's different in the Capitol, then. And the other Gamemakers must be stupid; there are loads of very, very useful healing supplies here - bandages, pain relievers, antiseptic, way better than the homemade salves we use at home.

I feel like he's overreacting. Mother and I have seen much worse patients who haven't even reacted, faces blank and impassive. Yet, it's only a mere scrape at best, and this Gamemaker is sobbing and crying. How lazy must life in the Capitol be; I'd like to see them try and live in District Twelve.

A quick pain reliever salve with some leaves, some weird clear liquid to clean the wound, some quick salve, and a bandage, that's all it takes. Maybe the other Gamemakers were too drunk to do anything except laugh and gather near the injured one, but the problem was fixed, thank goodness. But how did he get injured? _Maybe he scraped his leg on the table's leg, that's probably it_ , I think.

The Gamemaker whose leg I just bandaged and took care of doesn't even acknowledge me, and I figure they're all just too drunk to care.

So I leave, anxiety trickling down my back, gaining and gaining as I walk farther away. There is nothing left to do, I don't know what's left to do. Leaving was a bad idea, but it was the only one I had, and it isn't doing any favors for the waterfall of anxiety washing over me.

 _What a fail. I'll probably get a three if I'm lucky. Katniss would have gotten a seven, at least, and way more sponsors than I would have. I wonder how Peeta coped..._

That thought sends a jolt through me as I look around the district suite. And I'm snapped out of my daydreaming as I realize that there are no one except the Avoxes on this floor. I have no idea what happened, but I'm sure this isn't right, and the eerie quiet is getting to me. It's so silent, it's creepy. I'm not used to this, there's always Effie's high pitched voice in the background with that hideous Capitol accent, sounds of Haymitch retching in the sleek bathroom audible most of the time, sounds of Cinna and Portia conversing quietly. But I hear nothing. Sprinting out the door and racing to the elevator, I hit the rooftop button, not wanting to be involved in whatever's happening, but wanting to take a breath of fresh air.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like it must be a test, must be an extension of the "training session" with the Gamemakers, but when I reach the rooftop, feeling the cool breeze blow across my sweaty, damp skin, it's just as empty, lonely, silent, as the District 12 floor. _Think, Primrose, think. What the heck happened, and what is going on?_

I peer over the bar, probably to stop tributes from falling, and look down. The Capitol is so bright, lights flashing everywhere, and I think I see District 12, if I look far enough, but that's mere hallucination. I'm so caught up in my wonder that I fail to notice the ding of the elevator, the footsteps, and eventually, the gun against my back.

"Don't move," a gruff voice tells me, from behind. There's a pressure against my back, and I still, both out of fear and out of shock.

 _Maybe I can fall over, there seems to be water down there, it'll probably cushion my fall, I suppose. I won't die for sure like I will if this gun goes off, though._

"Now, Primrose Everdeen, what do you have to say about Peeta?"

I flinch. They're asking me about _Peeta?_ I answer it, afraid for my own life, cowering under both fear, and slight exaggeration, playing my cute and innocent 12-year-old side. If there's anything that will get me out of here alive, it's that... possibly.

"Yes? He's my district partner and friend," I reply, shivering a little.

Their breath puffs out irritably on my neck. "We are aware," they say, voice cutting. "But tell us...more."

 _What do they want me to say? All I want is to go back home, is that too much to ask?_ But of course, I know it is, at least in the messed up world of Panem that we're living in right now. Someday, maybe someone will rebel against the Capitol, but that day will likely never come.

They must have noticed that wistfulness in my eyes to go back to an imperfectly perfect home with perfectly imperfect people, and rebellion and hatred for the "perfectly" flawed nation, as the barrel digs even deeper and harder against my back.

"This is your last chance, or else you'll be thrown over the side to make it looked like you committed suicide. Perfectly good reason to, as well."

"B-But... the Capitol needs me for their games!" I shout in indignation. They can't possibly retract a tribute from the _Hunger Games_ , right? There would have to be too much cover-up. "And Peeta and my sister were close - that's all, I swear!"

"On your life?" the same gruff voice replies, with daggered amusement. After my failure to respond, she amends, "She's innocent, she knows nothing about Peeta's death."

I don't even register that they killed Peeta, until she said so, and even now, I'm still too terrified for myself to think for him. For a second, one pleasuring second, I think they're going to let me go. But then comes a second voice, a female one bristling with cold annoyance. "You mean she _was_ , before you just revealed classification level 10 secrets. Now we have to get rid of her."

I try to play dumb. "What just happened?"

"Ain't gonna work on me, kiddo. You're 'only' twelve, but I was already up and targeting people for the Capitol at that age."

They heave me over the bar and throw me over it. For a second, I'm free falling, death so close, eyes closed, bracing for the impact. Instead, I'm shocked, figuratively, and literally. My body feels completely electrocuted, and I think I actually _was._ I'm thrown back up into the air, back onto the roof, where the unsuspecting kidnappers have their backs turned.

I basically splatter onto the deck, frozen with fear and shock.

"Did you hear that?"

My blood freezes cold as they turn around, back at me, and I finally get a look at their faces.

Of course, I practically expected them to look like this - Two big and bulky, a man and a woman, clearly not hired for their brain. They converse for seconds before reaching to a decision, and I now note that there are actually three of them, one I missed earlier, tiny figure standing in the shadows of the larger... goons, let's say. She walks up, hands whirling with motion. She must be an Avox, I realize, but why are they listening to her? Well, not listening, but paying attention to the strange hand signals she uses.

She approaches me, much to the chagrin of the others, as they grumble and scratch their hands. The woman who spoke with cold annoyance earlier gently hands her a notepad. The Avox woman takes it, dark fingers handling it, before scratching something down. She kneels in front of me, holding up the paper so I can see it.

It's written in curvy script, and I realize it's in a different tongue. Grasping my confusion, she smiles quietly before scratching something again, this time in English.

It read "Ana," on it, most likely her name. "We apologize for the rough manner in which you were handled, we were merely following the orders we had been given. These buffoons," at this part, she turned to glare affectionately at the two behind her, who muttered something sheepishly, "had forgotten about the force field, and had just thrown you off the building quite roughly. We apologize, but we still have to carry out our orders. However, we can promise you a painless death."

Ana reaches into her bag, pulling out a syringe. She says something in her hand motions, but my tired and bruised mind does not realize what's about to happen in time.

I struggle to recall what she said, brain working on overtime, knowing that some part must have been important.

 _Painless, that's what she said. But what else, afterwards?_

I know this is important, this could do with death and not even having a chance of returning home. Katniss must have known.

And at my call, imaginary Katniss appears. "They want to kill you, Prim."

I know she's a figment of my own imagination, but I can't help but let a smile of relief touch my face, and I know what I must do.

 _Escape._

And so that's how I find myself on the floor for what seems like the thousandth time today, slipping out from underneath her arm only to trip on her foot. _Why must I be so clumsy sometimes?_

The woman stops with the large needle, and the three converse. I hear "change of tactics" and "manipulation," but my slow mind doesn't process them at all and Katniss doesn't appear again. Finally, they stop talking, their murmurs fading away, and surround me again.

"It's all right, Primrose, you can go back to your suite," the originally harsh female says with a surprising gentleness. I'm surprised she's this nice - she definitely wasn't earlier, and I would think she's faking if not for my irrational thinking as of now.

"Will Haymitch, Effie, and Peeta be there as well?"

She hesitates, for a second, but regains her composure. "Yes. Yes, they will."

I know she's lying for sure. Moments ago, they said that they killed Peeta. But I have nowhere else to go if I don't go with them, if I don't trust them. So I follow.

* * *

 **A/N: Heyy everyone, Tigress (and panda-nati) here. Surprise, surprise, we've written a longer chapter this time! It's 2258 words, not including the author's note, so hehe. We hope you enjoy reading, and watch out for the mild cliffhanger ;P But next chapter will be amazing and we might need trigger warnings for violence so you'll see ;) Have a nice day!**


	7. Interview Prep—Filler

Prim doesn't know what's happening. Everyone is walking, walking and chatting. Their voices are loud.

She glances around. Everyone is talking again. Should she talk too? Is that what they were here for? She glances around for someone to talk to. Prim stops looking. She fidgets with her clothes. What are they talking about?

"Stylist," she hears. Oh. Are they talking about their clothes? Prim looks down. She looks up again.

Her clothes are plain. She doesn't want to talk about clothes. She stays quiet. The back of her hand itches. Someone adjusts their glittery dress that rides up.

She doesn't want to look at them. The hallway is too warm. Maybe that's why.

It's too confusing. In the arena, everyone is your enemy, even your allies. Everyone wants to kill you. It's clear cut. Every man for himself. Why is everyone chatting and flirting?

You either kill or die.

A bird from the menagerie flies past. Why can't they talk about birds instead of clothes? Prim likes birds. She doesn't know about clothes.

It would be even better if they talked about cats. Prim has a cat. She loves cats. She loves her cat.

Someone's wing is bent. They have smooth dark skin that glitters a bit. They shouldn't go on stage like that. It would be embarrassing. They wouldn't get any sponsors.

Everyone is still talking. The back of her hand still itches.

Everyone stops. Why? Are they there yet?

She bumps into someone. Oh. It's the smooth dark skinned girl with the bent wing.

The girl turns back. She smiles. "We're almost here! The interviews are starting."

"Oh," Prim whispers. It's all she can say. She reaches out and fixes the bent wing. "There."

"Thanks," the girl whispers back. She giggles.

Prim's tongue feels strangely thick. "I'm Prim," she murmurs.

"I know that," she smiles again. Why is she smiling so much? "I'm Rue."

"How do you know that?" Prim asks. She is cut off, as Caesar Flickerman starts talking. She flinches at the loud booming voice she hears.

Rue touches her shoulder reassuringly. It eases her a little bit. Blankets the anxiety threatening to overwhelm her.

"You've got this."

* * *

 **A/N: Yeah, this is a temporary chapter/notice because this story will be on hiatus for the month of April, and possibly a little more than that. But panda-nati and I will get this back on track; we're focusing on other writing projects, mainly for Camp NaNoWriMo for April, but when that's finished, we will start off again! This part is just a teaser for what's to come, and written in panda-nati's incredible detached writing style :) We are not going to be skipping to interviews, but we wish to leave you in suspense with the dramatic parts, so that's why this chapter is interviews. Again, panda-nati and I are extremely sorry about this, but we have other priorities at the moment, and when this comes back, it will come back fast and furious. ;) See you then!**


	8. Behind the Scenes—Filler

The room is darkly lit, glowing shadows floating gently over hunched figures. There's a permeable tension in the air, and angry whispers fill the room. Over an elegant oval table, a harsh looking woman stands up, chair scraping uglily on the smooth floor.

"Stop arguing you fools," she says angrily, voice ringing loudly, "We have to get this under control. I don't know what you fools did, but before Seneca comes back, we have to rectify everything."

Another woman stands up, accusing eyes surveying the room. " _I_ didn't do anything, Jolana, surely _you_ understand that? Personally, I think the answer is _obvious_ ; we just have to get rid of Kolya."

Kolya looks up indignantly from his spot. "Artsvik! It wasn't _my_ fault Ana and her goons were to incompetent for a simple job! That troublesome Twelve boy wasn't my fault! Blame Seul-ki, not _me."_

Seul-ki huffs derisively, sipping his wine delicately. "Are you guys seriously going to believe that _buffoon_ over me? He's of a lower ranking than me, why would a superior Gamemaker like me botch such a simple operation?"

Their voices rise in a crescendo, accusatory statements growing louder. Jolana the first Gamemaker, raises her voice to a furious bellow. "Shut the _hell_ up." Everyone falls silent, eyes turned up respectfully to her. She's slaps her forehead, muttering unpleasant things. "Look, I'm basically in charge of this meeting, as Seneca isn't aware, and Plutarch refuses to his job properly. As the next highest ranking Game Maker, I'm responsible for all of you shits, and all of your blunders. _So just tell me what happened with Ana and the Twelve girl so we can fix it."_

Seul-ki sets his wine glass down delicately, leaning forward with a calculating smile on his face. "So Jolana," he says sweetly, "Say, for example, you fail this mission. Seneca gets mad, because not only did you fail an operation, you failed a secret operation that you didn't tell him about!" he claps his hands in false delight, "And then you, my dear colleague, will be jailed, or publicly executed! What fun!" his eyes narrow, "Of course, this is only an example. I'm _sure_ that such a wonderful Gamemaker like you won't be lowered like that!"

Kolya smirks, Artsvik snickering quietly. The room titters, as Seul-ki effortlessly turns the tables against Jolana. Sweat beads down her face as she attempts to regain the position of power in the room. Seul-ki takes another sip of his wine cup.

"That's not to mention the live cameras in here. When you called us here, Jolana, did you remember to shut them off? Oh, how terrible it would be if they were on, and the President was watching right now." Seul-ki's wine glass is empty, so he takes the bottle to pour out some more. A pleased half-smile sits on his face.

Emboldened by Seul-ki's words, Artsvik chimes in, nibbling at a plate of crackers. "Oh yes, Jolana, how could you! Giving away our private plotting like that; the blame will probably actually land on you! How sad that would be, right Kolya?"

Kolya smile, pointed teeth catching the dim light. "Very sad indeed," he parrots, shaking his head sadly.

Seul-ki takes another drawn out sip, the clanking of the glass on his teeth the only audible noise. Suddenly, his eyes widen, blown large in shock. "F—" he says lowly, voice scratchy and stunned, wine dribbling out of his mouth. A dark stain slowly spreads from the back of his crisp shirt, to a visible angle to the rest of the Gamemakers. A hacked out laugh works its way to his lips, "So you did leave the cameras on after all. And to think the Capital heard all that. Ha!" Another laugh makes its way to Seul-ki's mouth, more frenzied and desperate than the last. He slumps against the table, spent. More wine dribbles out of his mouth, the wine glass falling against his slender fingers, and shattering. The glass shards lodge themselves into his skin, blood trickling into rivulets down his knuckles.

Peacekeepers barge into the room, upsetting the quiet horror of Seul-ki's frenetic gurgles. Chairs scrape violently, as the room is upset, and Gamemakers rise hurriedly, hands splayed submissively in an effort not to meet the same end as Seul-ki.

President Snow's voice rings out, Jolana flinching when she hears the pleasant gravelly voice, underlaid with a violent threat. "Hello friends," he says warmly, the speakers vibrating slightly in the room. "It has come to my attention that some of our comrades had wished to conspire without my knowledge. We know what happens to those types of people—we kill them.

"Mark my words: no one plots or plans behind my back; I have eyes everywhere." And with that, the speakers click off.

Seul-ki's last words are, "Maybe that's why you're so ugly! You have eyes everywhere, you freak!"

"Bro! Don't do that, man!"

Warning too late, the speakers click on again. "I am always listening. Peacekeepers, kill that man. And I know what you've done with Peeta—I always know."

* * *

 **A/N: Aaand we have another filler chapter because, well, we thought we'd update and give y'all this behind-the-scenes look to see a glimpse of the pre-plot. Next chapter will FOR SURE be a legitimate chapter with Prim in it. See you then!**


End file.
